


Things We'll Never Say

by themuslimbarbie



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-26
Updated: 2011-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:44:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themuslimbarbie/pseuds/themuslimbarbie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things that they never say. Some words that don't exactly suite them, you know? There are some words that no one–no one–can ever even imagine Amy Pond or the Doctor ever saying. Not ever. There are three words that don't ever need saying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things We'll Never Say

 

* * *

**I'm up for the fight into the magic**  
 **And I don't want the concrete**  
 _Animal_ , Kesha

* * *

Their relationship is a rather strange one, Amy knows. Her and the Doctor's. It isn't really a traditional one. Hell, it's barely a functional one. Because they don't really make a lot of sense. But their relationship, well, it works somehow. Because it's fun, it's challenging, it's maddening. It's loud, it's reckless, it's wild. And dangerous. So very,  _very_  dangerous.

'Cause the thing about the Doctor and her is that they're both the destructive type. The sort to go out with a big bang, you know? The still, peaceful, quiet thing has never worked for either of them. They'd much rather have the adventure, the daftness, the wonder of everything else. And the danger. Especially the danger.

Because what fun is life without a little risk?

Except there are some things that they will never risk. Ever. There are some things that she cannot even imagine risking. And there are some things that they never say. Some words that don't exactly suite them, you know? There are some words that no one– _no one_ –can ever even imagine Amy Pond or the Doctor ever saying. Not ever.

There are three words that don't ever need saying.

 

_Goodbye._

She left him before he ever had the chance to want to keep her. Because what was five minutes for him was twelve years for her; what was a few hours for him was two more years for her. A single day for him lasted fourteen years for her. And fourteen years is a ( _painfully_ ) long time for a human. It's long enough for her to live, for her to find a life outside of him, for her to find someone who isn't him.

Fourteen years is long enough for her to decide that she will leave him to spend forever with someone else. It's long enough for her to pick someone who isn't him. Because, really, it could've never been him. How could she possibly pick someone who leaves her?

Because, you see, he always leaves her. Sometimes it's alone, sometimes it's in the dark, sometimes it's in the middle of danger. But if there has ever been on consistency in her life, it's that he always leaves her. Always. He always has and she knows he always will.

Except the thing is, he always comes back. Every single time. It's never when he promises, because he's always bloody late and sometimes he takes far longer than she can stand, but he always comes back to her. She calls him and he comes. She needs him and he's there. That's just the way it works. That's the way it always has.

But she isn't daft. She never has been. She's Amy Pond, after all, and Amy Pond's always been quick and clever. So she knows that just because it's always been that way doesn't been that it always will be. Because she knows she isn't the first one, not even close. She's seen all their pictures–the previous ones, the girls before her–but she can't even begin to count them all. She's not the first and she knows she won't be the last. Because she knows River Song, so how could she even begin to imagine it won't end someday?

One day, he will leave her.

One day, she will leave him.

One day, they're supposed to say that one little,  _stupid_  word, which will mean absolutely everything. One day, everything will have to end and there'll be nothing left to say. And on that day they'll have to go their separate ways and move on with their lives.

But if they ever say that one word that means the end forever, she thinks it might just kill them.

_Sorry._

He never apologises for what he did to her. For the fourteen bloody years he kept her waiting. He never tells her he's sorry for the pain he caused: for the four psychiatrists who fought her until the end, for the family who were convinced she was mad, for the friends who looked at her with pity in their eyes. For the life she never had. Because she's Amelia Pond,  _the-girl-the-Doctor-broke_.

He never apologises for the hurt, or the nights she stayed up crying and wishing and dreaming. Never. Not once.

And honestly, she thinks it's because he knows she will never forgive him for it. Yeah, sure, she moved on with her life and, yeah, she meant it when she said the wait was worth it. And it was, really. The entire universe, all of time and space for fourteen years? She would do it all over again in a heartbeat. And again and again. But still, that doesn't lessen the damage it caused. Because he hurt her more than anyone ever has and she will never forgive him for that.

But that's okay, because she hurts him right back. She blames him for things that aren't his fault, she tells him she doesn't understand the point of him, she backs away when he tries to hug her. And it kills him a little bit every time she does. She knows it–she knows  _him_ –and she can see it in his eyes. She can see all of it: all of the pain, and hurt, and betrayal. Every stupid last bit.

And she never apologises for any of it. Never. Not once.

Because, you see, the thing is she knows that even if he smiles it off, he will never forgive her. He doesn't hold it against her and she knows that he understands why she does it–he understands  _her_ , after all–but that doesn't mean it doesn't kill him a little bit every time. That doesn't mean that she doesn't break his old, fragile, lonely heart every bloody time.

Only, it's okay, because they both understand it. They have some sort of stupid unsaid agreement between them to ignore it. After all, just because they won't ever forgive each other doesn't mean they can't look past it. So they do exactly that: they ignore it and look past it. They focus on everything else. Everything else that is right and not rubbish and could destroy them.

So they don't apologise, don't say sorry for the pain they cause one another.

After all, why waste their breath on a word that won't ever get them anywhere?

_Love._

Contrary to what everyone else in the whole universe thinks, you can't pin all of your feelings down to one stupid little word. Whoever first thought of that has to be the universe's biggest moron.

Because after everything they've seen, all monsters they've fought and the planets they've explored, after all they've done, how could she possibly pin down exactly what she feels for him with a single word? They've shared too much to boil all of their feelings down to one stupid little L word. Because sometimes you fancy someone you shouldn't, sometimes they're like your sibling, sometimes they look after you like a parent, sometimes they become your best friend. Except it's more than that, because  _they're_  more than that. They're more complicated than that. So,  _so_  much more complicated than that.

Sometimes she wants nothing more to smack that stupid grin off his face, sometimes she drives him so mad that he doesn't even know how to react. Sometimes they hurt each other so much that they can't even bare to look at one another. Sometimes she thinks they know that they would probably both be better off if she just left already. Sometimes she thinks they need to just move past each other and on with their lives.

It's more than that though, because sometimes he puts these stupid walls up and pretends nothing's wrong, but she can always tell. Sometimes she fascinates him so much that his eyes light up and he gets so excited that all he can do is grab her and kiss the top of her head. Sometimes when she won't even admit to herself that she's upset, he does something so ridiculous that she instantly feels better. Sometimes when he babbles on about something spacey-wacey, he taps her on the nose or bumps his shoulder against hers and grins, and she feels like she's the most magnificent thing in the whole universe.

But sometimes, they have these rare moments when they sit alone in silence. It never starts like that–they're both too bloody talkative for it ever to start like that–but occasionally it ends with a comfortable silence, where they both sit still because neither of them are quite ready to move away from the other just yet.

And in those very ( _very_ ) rare moments, he looks at with this bloody look on his face that says so many different things all at once. And it makes her feel so many stupid things all at once that she wants to cry and laugh at the same time. And it's so much all at once that it can't ever possibly bubble down to one damn word.

So they never say it and she knows that they never will. They don't need a single word to express how they feel when they're  _so much_  more than just that.

Their relationship is a strange one, she knows. They're mad and wild. They're hurt and broken. They're happiness and joy. They're everything that is wrong and right with the universe. They're so much more than anyone else can ever understand.

There are things that everyone else probably thinks that they should say to one another, because no properly functional relationship can survive without them. But, thing is, their relationship has never been about functioning properly. They've always been the sort to favour the destructive and the dangerous instead.

There are three words that Amy Pond and the Doctor will never say to one another.

Three words that they never need to.

 

 


End file.
